


where or when

by cellorocket



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Bad Jokes, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Smut, a very filthy apartment, hipster bashing, ridiculous pining, some old friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-20 12:45:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8249591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellorocket/pseuds/cellorocket
Summary: In his dreams Auruo was haunted by ghosts, three shadows in a red forest. One of those shadows was a woman, and he'd loved her. Every morning he woke aching with it. | a love story, second verse.





	1. Chapter 1

**_part one -- haunted heart_ **

 

 _In the night, though we're apart_  
_there's a ghost of you within my haunted heart._  
_ghost of you, my lost romance,_  
_lips that laugh, eyes that dance._

_~_

 

November dawned crisp and cold, and a heavy fog descended over the city. From his grimy sixth-story window, Auruo watched the tips of skyscrapers poke up from the rolling mist like grey fingers reaching for the sky. He bent over the steaming mug clasped between his hands and inhaled shakily, and the scent of coffee settled deep in his lungs, tying him firmly to the world beneath his feet. This was real; the ceramic burning his palms, the scalding liquid on his tongue, the tickle of caffeine in his veins. This, and nothing else. 

_A flash of red in a shivering forest. The amber woman soared at his side; she flew, then fell, and he screamed her name, but he can’t remember it now, he can’t remember …_

Sirens wailed in the distance, startling him. _It’s just a dream,_ he told himself, again and again. _Just a dream._ Already it slithered back behind the wall in his thoughts, harried out of the way by a thousand banalities. He listed each with stubborn distance, chewing the edge of his tongue. The first time it had taken him days to come back to the real world, but the ritual was deeper than habit now, a necessary, involuntary function.  _Need to get groceries, dammit._ He was out of deodorant too, he remembered after a moment. _You blew too much money on takeout this week._ Most of his paycheck had to go toward a new sustaining pedal for his Casio. _How about you actually clean your apartment this weekend instead of wallowing in garbage like an idiot._ On and on.

 _Just get to tonight._ He could do that much.

He slurped the dregs of his coffee and dumped the mug in the sink without washing it before shuffling into the bathroom. Paint flaked off the wall in large swaths, and the mirror was spattered with toothpaste and grime, but he clambered into the shower without seeing any of it. He’d gotten pretty good at ignoring the depressing state of his apartment, how obvious it was that a miserable person lived there. A stream of lukewarm water sputtered from the spigot before blasting him full in the face, and he spat out the bracing mouthful. He was going to have to call the landlord to complain about the goddamn water heater again, and the impending confrontation sucked the will to live right out of him. He often felt as if he should complain about his small annoyances; not because it was right or appropriate, not exactly. It was more a sense of expectation, the habitual flex of fingers that were no longer there. But these days he could hardly muster the energy.

 _Stupid._ Anyway, he didn't have anyone to complain with. So it was a moot point.

His days were heavy with routine, too closely kept; he scarfed a bland breakfast, clomped down the rickety stairs with his bike over his shoulder and rode five miles to the station, shifting so his messenger bag bounced against his back instead of his hip. The roads were sticky with frost, the sky the color of old wool. Briefly he thought about writing a song for the color, but most of his original shit was too grey these days, flat and depressing. Each chart met its fate crumpled beyond recognition and banished to the garbage.

 _Tonight,_ he reminded himself.

He chained up his bike and wandered onto the Metra with the rest of the 7:35am rush, studying his fellow commuters with rude intensity. Their faces were a part of the ritual too, familiar as old wallpaper. The guy with the bushy eyebrows tapped his foot at a sedate tempo Auruo knew by heart; an impossibly bony woman planted her elbow into his stomach as the train jostled them downtown, perpetually unaware of how much space she occupied. The student with the beat up skateboard bobbled his head to tinny music Auruo had heard a thousand times, thumbing the faded _Occupy Wall Street_ patch on his backpack.

Auruo closed his eyes, and the sound of exhausted commuters and rustling newspaper faded to a distant murmur. The dream had been worse last night, so much worse than usual; it sat in his chest like a stone, crushing the breath from his lungs. He  _remembered_  her, he’d touched her … and it wasn’t the muffled sensation of a dream gesture but something solid; thrumming, vital as memory,  _real_. Light auburn hair spilled over her bare shoulders, dusted by a smattering of freckles, and he gently cupped her neck, savoring the feel of her pulse racing against his palms. He’d bent to kiss her …

Then he’d seen her die.

Sucking in a taut breath, he pushed the dream back behind its wall, gritting his teeth. It was bad enough that he had the damn nightmares in the first place, but he couldn't even control his thoughts when he was awake. He was crazy with the memory of a life that didn't belong to him, one that probably didn't belong to anyone. He cursed himself; only a stupid kid got bent out of shape over things that never happened and people he never knew. Only a moron let it hound him as it has. 

 _It doesn’t matter._ A pathetic lie, but it made him feel better to think it. _Just get to tonight._

_~_

By evening, he was sufficiently numbed by his job, so the dream lingered only at the very edge of his thoughts. It was the only thing his job was good for, besides the paycheck; he worked at a midlevel office supply firm that mostly provisioned the businesses on the south side, and managed the support chat and forum for people too anxious to call in their problems. It was probably best he stayed off the phones; he’d been told his voice was somewhat unfriendly. _Irritating_ , Sarah had snapped before she left, the last time. _Grating. Obnoxious._

It could be true, for all he knew. It probably was. She’d said a lot of things that seemed cruel at first.

He stepped out into the misty twilight, squinting up at the slate-colored sky. These were the best parts of his day, the hours after work, before he had to go home; these few hours away from his haunted apartment. There was a real piano at the bar, a beat up Yamaha upright, and the acoustics were great, and for a few hours he was enveloped by something he loved unreservedly, the only reprieve in the world.

He was halfway to Levi’s place when his phone vibrated frantically in his back pocket. He groped clumsily for it, jostled out of the way by impatient pedestrians. “What?”

 _“Is that any way to answer your phone? I know I taught you better than that.”_ In the background, two of his brothers were arguing – Christophe and Etienne, going by the indignant pitch of their voices. It was probably Christophe’s fault, whatever it was about.

“Hi, Mom.”

_“You didn’t call yesterday.”_

Right, because yesterday had been Sunday. “I forgot.” _Just get to tonight_ , he thought helplessly, even though tonight was imminent, just a few blocks away. His hands ached with need. 

_“Too busy to remember to check in with your poor mother, huh?”_

She sounded hopeful, which was worse than if she’d been upset, somehow. She had some fantasy in mind when he’d moved to the city, that he’d finally come ‘out of his shell’ and go out with people and have drinks and do things like a normal person. Instead, he’d spent the entire day moping in his apartment, watching documentaries on Netflix and eating week-old Thai. “Something like that.”

He could practically hear her frowning. _“I wish you’d get out more, sweetheart.”_

“I go out practically every day. I got a job, don’t I? I got two jobs.”

_“I mean with friends.”_

“Geez … don’t beat around the bush or anything.”

_“I’m your mother; I’m allowed to be concerned.”_

It was stupid to be annoyed; by now this conversation was routine too. He was annoyed regardless. “You convinced me. I’ll get right on it.”

_“Hmm.”_

She didn't believe him, and he didn't believe himself either. He had a routine, after all, and routines were safe. “Look, I still gotta eat before my gig. I’ll call you Sunday, alright?”

 _“Get out more,”_ she told him again.

“Did you call me just to give me crap about my social life?”

_“What social life?”_

He made a wounded sound. “Geez! Y’know mothers are supposed to be nice, right?”

 _“We’re supportive,”_ she clarified _. “Sometimes that means tough love.”_

“Because that’s what this is.”

 _“You’ll thank me in the end,”_ she said, with that ridiculous tone of voice parents used when they thought they were right. _“Bye, sweetheart.”_

He hiked the frayed strap up his shoulder and pocketed his phone before striding down Roosevelt at an eager clip. Already the sun had set; skyscraper lights winked through the haze like distant stars, and a chorus of carhorns accompanied the busking saxophonist across the street, crooning _Body and Soul_. She was pretty good, with a breathy, lustful sound, the kind that made him wistful. He hadn't played with a group since college.

It only took him twenty minutes to slog from his office to the bar, twenty minutes he could barely endure. Auruo shoved the rest of his pita into his mouth before ducking into the thick darkness, and it was more like coming home than to his own apartment. The customary spread of patrons lifted their heads when the door opened, before turning back to their drinks. Levi nodded at him wordlessly; above his head the familiar sign loomed, flickering neon in green and white.

The name always got people. Most assume it was the proprietor attempting to pull off some vague hipster aesthetic, but really it was because Levi was a painfully literal person, with a weird sense of humor.  _They’ll have to tell people they’re going to Tonight_ , he’d said when Auruo asked, perfectly deadpan. _‘Where you going tonight?’_ His expression hadn’t even flickered. Auruo, for his part, nearly choked on his beer.

Levi was a short man in his late thirties, with black hair, pinched features, and dark circles beneath his eyes so impressive you might think he’d been born with them. Taciturn, oddball, and vaguely dangerous; he gave Auruo the feeling that he’d killed someone before, or would if he needed to. Maybe ex-military, or something more illicit; Auruo never asked, and he didn't plan to. All he knew was that there was something strong about Levi too, quietly kind; solid in the face of a rough life.  He probably had a legitimate reason to be a wreck, and he wasn't. Auruo found it aspirational.

“You’re late,” Levi said, drying his hands.  

Auruo swiped his thumb over his phone, squinting at the time. “Four minutes, really? You’re gonna give me shit over four minutes.”

“Four minutes becomes a half hour, which becomes two hours, which becomes –“

“Christ, Levi. Gimme a break one goddamn day, would you? You think I’d really leave you hanging for two hours?”

“No,” Levi said. “You know better.”

He sure did. “Dunno what you’re upset about, I don’t even need to warm up.” He thumped the heel of his hand on the pristine bartop. “Just a whiskey.”

“You can have water.”

Levi didn't approve of his drinking. Auruo didn't really either; the question was a bad joke, an appeal to the master of bad jokes, but it fell flat. He must not be very convincing anymore. He flashed Levi a hasty grin. “I was kiddin’, c’mon.”

“Right.”

Levi busied himself behind the immaculate bar, wiping his hands carefully on a white cloth before folding it neatly and tucking it back into his apron. _Tonight_ wastucked in a remote corner on the lower west side, but it had a reputation for decent food, passable music, and the most spotless atmosphere you were likely to find in all of Chicago. It was shit like this that made Auruo suspect Levi was former military; that kind of compulsion didn't just come from nowhere. Then again, he could just like a clean business. You could never really tell with Levi.

Auruo slouched at the bar and slurped on his water, trying to ignore Levi’s probing stare. “You look like shit,” the older man finally said, arching a thin brow.

Auruo scrubbed at his face with his free hand. “Thanks.”

“I mean it. You doing that disgusting shit again? If I go over to your place am I gonna have a problem.”

“You’re not going over to my place.” _Not the way it is right now._

Levi’s judgmental frown deepened. “That answers that, I guess.”

“You know, my mother called to give me shit less than twenty minutes ago. You two coordinate this or what?”

“Coordinate,” Levi said without inflection. “That’s a good idea.”

“Hilarious.”

He sniffed, wiping down a spotless glass. “What's her problem now.”

“I’m a shut-in,” Auruo said with a careless shrug. “I don’t have a social life. Geez. Who even has a social life these days anyway? We’re all trying to make enough money to live. Do _you_ have a social life? Maybe I’m just a quiet-type person, what about that, huh? You gotta be out and about doing whatever shit with whatever schmucks can tolerate you for more than a few minutes or you’re not living right, according to her. Maybe I just like my space.”

Levi said nothing, his expression flat and impatient; when the silence grew too accusing Auruo sighed and shoved away from the bar. Levi was one of the best people he knew, and he’d do just about anything for the man, but he could only take so much goddamn lecturing.

He settled himself at the piano, stretching his fingers out over the keys. These were familiar too; for all intents and purposes this was his piano, and it had been for four years, ever since Levi found Auruo busking across the street -- newly arrived to the city, disillusioned, even more pathetic than he was now. Levi fixed him with a withering stare and said that he was sick of Auruo skulking around his place like a sad sack, driving away business with his mopey ballads, so he might as well come work for him. It hadn't made much sense to Auruo; why not call the cops? But Levi insisted. _People like live music_ , he’d said with a shrug. _Make people sad in my bar, they’ll buy more drinks._ And that was the end of it.

Auruo took a breath, let it sit in his chest. There were only a few people here tonight, only the most regular of regulars, the ones who got off the Metra at 47th and grabbed a few drinks before walking the rest of the way home. But he’d been playing here long enough that even a packed house wouldn’t faze him; not at his piano, in Levi’s place. When he exhaled, sinking heavily into the opening chord, it was like breathing for the first time since the dream.

His first set was a long burn; lackadaisical and irreverent renditions of his favorite standards progressing into interpretations so unintentionally impassioned that they left him breathless. He played  _On Green Dolphin Street_ at a lazy tempo, smirking at the thought of his old teacher grinding her teeth at his impertinence, before cranking out an anxious _St. Thomas,_ one that had the guy in the front chewing on his thumbnail.  But he didn't register the audience much after that; he descended deeper into the haze of his music, a place where everything was less articulated, more primordial.

His fingers thrummed; he felt the piano in the soles of his feet, the center of his chest. Stage-lights fringed the darkness with red and purple and blue, bathing the stage in otherworldly light. _C#3 is a little out of tune._ _Try this one as a samba._ Nothing else existed.

If he had a brain in his skull he’d avoid ballads today, especially after the dream, (god, what it had been like to _feel_ her …) But he wasn't smart – he was the kid that picked at scabs so bad the scar ended up a quarter inch thick. He played his favorites, _I've Got You Under My Skin_ and _The Nearness of You_ and _Tenderly_. He pined through them, yearned; the lyrics bloomed in the back of his throat as the melody spinned out of his right hand, and he wanted to sing more than he had in a long time –  _it seems we’ve stood and talked like this before …_

Swallowing, he bowed his head, eyes clenching shut. _It might not be a dream …_ but he didn't know if that made it better or worse. It felt real enough to be a memory, raw and ragged, its presence nearly physical. If it wasn't a dream he wouldn’t be crazy, but he’d be haunted by real ghosts, those three shadows in the red forest. One of those shadows was a woman, and he’d loved her. Every morning he woke aching with it.

 _You really are a moron._ This was the one place he could escape her, and he dug it up anyway.

One of his old classmates liked to say that being troubled made your music better, because it gave you a deeper pool to draw from, but it just made Auruo inaccurate. He ground out some upbeat charts with his teeth on edge, cursing himself for each clumsy passage and failed idea. He’d ruined it. He’d broken the spell with his moony bullshit. He was so disgusted with himself that by the end of the set his neck burned with shame. He wanted to go out back and kick around the dented milk crate Levi kept for this exact purpose, chain-smoking an entire carton of cigarettes. If they hadn't been friends, Levi would probably fire him for being such a hack. He slammed out the last chord as if it had personally wronged him.

Wincing in disgust, Auruo’s gaze swept over the barfloor, a leftover habit from when he still genuinely cared who might come to see him play and what they might think, gauging if he could see it in their faces. Levi shook his head, probably annoyed with Auruo's tantrum. A few people had left – not surprising, considering how badly he played – but there were two new faces; a man hunched at the table in the corner, nursing his drink and tapping furiously on his phone, his thick brows furrowed in consternation. And in the center of the floor, a woman –

His heart shuddered to a stop. She was watching him, and in that horrible instant Auruo knew her, though he’d never seen her before.


	2. Chapter 2

Nifa hung over the cubicle partition with slouchy grace, tracing loops and curls on Petra’s desk. “Where are you going tonight?” she asked, a flicker of interest in her dark eyes.

Petra squinted at the sheet. _“Tonight.”_

“Yeah, that’s what I –“

“No,” she said, biting her lip against a smile, “that’s the name of the place.”

Nifa’s laughter was incredulous. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“Probably.”

“Be careful the hipsters don’t steal one of your cardigans,” Nifa said, covering a smile behind her hands.

Petra flashed her a disapproving look, tugging the offending garment tighter around her shoulders; the last four clubs Stevens assigned her had been veritable havens of polyester and affected disaffectation, with names like _Leaf_ and _Analogue_ and _Ditches’ Dew_. “Leave my cardigans out of this.”

“I’m serious, though,” Nifa said, the laughter in her eyes fading to concern. “Stevens always sends you to such weird places. Does he hate you or something?”

Definitely possible, and something she’d considered in her lower moments. She’d been working at _The_ _Beacon_ for almost three years and he still had her writing scraps for Entertainment and Lifestyle. Not that she didn’t appreciate the opportunity to meet new people and see what the city had to offer. It wasn’t what she’d gone to college for, though; wasn’t what propelled her through sleepless nights spent studying, researching, and always writing, writing –

But she always made a point to see the bright side, especially when she was upset. With a cheerful smile, she shrugged. “You don’t know that it’s a weird place. It could just have a weird name.”

“I think the name is usually a pretty good indicator.”

“Maybe it’s good weird.”

“ _Is_ there a good weird?”

“Of course. Anyway, at worst it’ll be a few uncomfortable hours for three nights, then I’m free.”

“Until the next crazy assignment Stevens gives you,” Nifa said, brows furrowing.

Petra couldn’t help the fond smile. “I think you’re more upset about this than I am.”

“Well, someone needs to be! You’re too nice.”

Wincing, she flapped her hands at her insistent friend, banishing both the assessment and the concern. “I definitely am not.”

“You gave a stranger twenty bucks for Metra fare.”

“He needed it. He started crying, remember?”

“Metra fare is three dollars.”

“I only had twenties on me!” She scowled as impressively as she could manage; talk of niceness always bothered her for some reason, made her feel as if she was naïve or stupid. “I need to finish this before I head out.”

Nifa shoved away from the desk, a deepening frown twisting her delicate features into something harder, protective. _She_ was the nice one, Petra thought firmly; she’d worry herself sick over such small things – annoyances at best, inconveniences. “Don’t skip dinner again, okay?”

“Yes, mother.”

This time Nifa smiled. “See you tomorrow.”

It was kind of her to worry, but Petra knew enough about the industry to know if you wanted to get anywhere, you did your time in the kid pen, writing fluff pieces and busting tail until someone noticed. Or you moved onto something better, if you could.

Her phone buzzed in her purse and she fished it out quickly, a spike of anxiety shooting down her stomach. She knew who it was even before the screen flickered on.

> _[ dad, 7:42] where are you?_

_Always so worried …_ her brows tented as she tapped out a reply.

> _[ petra, 7:42] I’m at work still :)_
> 
> _[ dad, 7:43] what time will you be home?_
> 
> _[ petra, 7:43] probably around midnight. I’m on an assignment tonight! Friday and Saturday too._
> 
> _[ dad, 7:43] do you have your kit?_

She bit her lip, swallowing the rise of thickness in her throat. Annoyance might have been a comfort once, but now the guilt cut her heart to ribbons.  

> _[ petra, 7:44] I always have it._
> 
> _[ dad, 7:44] the new mace?_
> 
> _[ petra, 7:45] Of course :)_
> 
> _[ dad, 7:46] ok, I’ll see you when you get home then._
> 
> _[ petra, 7:47] Dad, please. You don’t have to wait up!_
> 
> _[ dad, 7:47] I’ll be up anyway._

Up worrying, he meant. She drew a steady breath, let it out slow.  

> _[ petra, 7:49] Ok Dad, see you in a few hours :D_

Before he could reply, she muted her phone and stuffed it back into the very bottom of her purse, her gut twisting. He’d be happier if she got a job closer to home, and it didn’t involve an hour and twenty-minute commute each way or time spent in the city after dark, weaving through whatever shady haunts her boss assigned her that week. In some of her father’s darker moods, she considered it seriously.

She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes until geometric shapes spun behind her eyelids. It was no use getting upset. He was just worried, that was all. She could never blame him for that.  

With another slow breath, she booted down her desktop and shrugged into her blue pea coat, hiking the collar up around her neck. Last night’s rain speckled the windows, each drop sliding lazily earthward, and she watched their progress without really seeing until her monitor flickered off. _Maybe some churros from the bodega would cheer him up …_

The floor was almost deserted; only a few of her colleagues remained at their cubicles, hunched in front of their computers, their wan faces illuminated by flickering light. The furious clacking of keys escorted her all the way to the elevator, accompanied by the dull whine of a vacuum down the hall. _We should start thinking about what to get the custodians for the holidays this year_ , she thought, punching the button for the foyer.

By the time she stepped outside, the sun had set; misty twilight descended over the city like a veil, rendering the tops of the skyscrapers mysterious, no more than a suggestion in the dark. It was almost lonely, she thought as she looked up at them; those looming sentinels in blocks and rows. Yet she couldn’t be lonely in thick of things, a tableau of light and sound; cars piled bumper to bumper on five lane streets, a flood of pedestrians sweeping up and down the sidewalks, steam rising from the grates around their ankles. 

She flagged a taxi and slid inside, hugging her purse to her chest. “West 47th and State please.”

The driver gave a wordless wave of acknowledgement before easing his cab back into the flow of traffic, eliciting a half-minute of indignant honking behind them. If you wanted to get anywhere in this city, you had to be assertive – she’d learned that her first month. Though in her opinion, Chicagoan assertiveness often veered into aggression.

She’d promised herself that she wouldn’t check her phone again until on her way home, but the tight line of the cabbie’s neck made her anxious. She fished through her cavernous purse for it, chewing on her lip. 

 

 

> _[ nifa, 8:11] you know this place doesn’t even have a website?????_
> 
> _[ petra, 8:20] That doesn’t necessarily mean anything either._

 

 

 

> _[ dad, 7:59] Would you take a cab? I’d feel a lot better knowing you weren’t on the streets after dark._
> 
> _[ dad, 8:00] Petra?_
> 
> _[ dad, 8:00] Please respond when you get this._
> 
> _[ petra, 8:21] I already am :)_

_~_

Her first impression of _Tonight_ surprised her; she’d expected a shabby joint populated by disaffected patrons who contemplated their room-temperature alcohol with world-weary introspection, but the bar had a cozy atmosphere, subtly romantic; the low light within was welcoming, and strains of wistful piano jazz filled the room like a sweet smell. Even if Stevens hadn’t assigned her to write about this place, she’d have still been drawn to it.

She waved over the bartender, a short man with drawn features, sharpened into reproach. His brows rose almost imperceptibly when he caught sight of her leaning against the bartop, as if to prompt her to speak, but soon they settled over his hard eyes. “What do you want.”

“Do you have Blue Moon?”

He didn’t bother to affirm or deny, only turned his back on her and busied himself with a spotless snifter. If he was the owner of this place, it wasn’t surprising that hardly anyone knew about it, or that he didn’t bother to set up a website to advertise – he didn’t strike her as the kind of person to desperately promote his business, or even to really care one way or another if it was especially lucrative. Maybe modest security was enough for him. _Realistic expectations_ , she concluded, watching the pianist. This location was removed enough from the heart of the city to make that kind of success a challenge.

She shifted from foot to foot, her first test, and smiled when her shoes didn’t stick to the floor. Behind her, the sound of the piano sunk down to her bones.

When the bartender returned with her beer, she thanked him and counted out the cash. “Are you the owner here?”

“Yes.”

Not in the habit of wasting time or words, then. That was always easiest. “I’m Petra Ral, I write for _The Beacon_. And you are?”

He was silent so long that she had to keep herself from fidgeting; somehow, she got the feeling it would annoy the man more than he was already. “Levi.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” She smiled warmly. “We’re going to do a little piece on your bar.”

“No thanks.”

“What?”

“I don’t need it.”

She blinked. This had never happened before, and the thought of reporting to Stevens with a tale of failure made her stomach clench. “I—I’m sorry, it's certainly not an obligation— “

Levi let out a terse sigh. “Never mind. I never heard of The Beacon, anyway. But I’m calling your boss if I get a bunch of shitty brats mucking up the place after your _little piece_.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever written anything that’s actually affected anyone’s business before,” she said with a shrug, taking another sip of beer.

“Not even negatively.”

“Well, I hope not.”

His astute gaze narrowed, drifting down to the phone under her hands before lifting to her face again. “Why stake out a place on Monday night. There’s hardly anyone here.”  

“Oh, I was planning on coming by Friday and Saturday night for the notes I’ll use to write the article. Catch your weekend acts. I just wanted to check things out unofficially first.”

A flat look. “You have to check out a place before you check out a place.”

“I suppose so.” Her smile was a little sheepish. “Well, and it’s easier to talk to the people who work there when it’s not busy.”

His eyebrows quirked again, by such an infinitesimal degree that she thought she’d imagined it. “Is that right.”  

“I’d rather not scream my questions.” _Why are you so unfriendly?_

“What do you need to talk to them for, anyway.”

“They can tell me what it’s like to work here,” she said, a little bite in her tone, though her smile remained in place. “What kind of acts you bring in, stuff like that.” She pocketed her phone, more than a little annoyed. “Thanks again for the drink.”  

He gave her a hard look. “Don’t bother my employees.”

“Of course. I’ll be sure not to disturb them while they’re working.”  Subtle emphasis. She was going to ask her questions whether he liked it or not. She’d do it off his property if he was going to be difficult.

With one last smile, this one edged with cool courtesy, she stepped away from the bar and wandered to a table at the center of the floor, to better watch the goings-on. She sat with a huff, careful not to spill her drink on the immaculate tabletop. He clearly didn’t care that she might write a scathing article about his place; perhaps he’d even prefer it to praise.

Not that it mattered what he wanted. 

On these assignments, she was supposed to try a little of the food, check out the general state of the place, talk to some of the patrons, and take note of the beer they had on tap, but a large portion of her article would be about the music. For her, it was always about the music. Everything else was window trimming; an added bonus if the acts were good, powerless to affect her verdict if they were bad. No one went anywhere in this city to enjoy unskilled, random noise, not unless it was awful on purpose. (Stupid hipsters).

Thankfully for _Tonight_ , the music was intoxicating. It crawled in her ear and coiled around her thoughts, heady as spice and smoke. Though she ordered a few appetizers and took notes on her phone, chatted up some of the customers (all of whom were staunchly loyal to Levi and his bar), it was the music that captured her full attention; each note of it mingled with the vague buzz of alcohol, leaving her lightheaded and breathless. He played charts so energetic and anxious that she couldn’t keep from tapping her foot, before segueing to melancholy, wistful melodies that made her chest ache. There was an entire lifetime in the songs he played, music she didn’t recognize but knew somehow.    

> _[ nifa, 9:20 ] how is it???_
> 
> _[ petra, 9:45 ] It’s really nice! The owner is a little unfriendly but the food is good and the music is incredible._
> 
> _[ nifa, 9:50 ] what kind???_
> 
> _[ petra, 9:50] Jazz piano. I’d take a video but I don’t think the owner would like that much._
> 
> _[ nifa, 9:51] I meant what kind of food._

Petra couldn’t keep from laughing.   

> _[ petra, 9:52] Asking the important questions, I see._
> 
> _[ nifa, 9:53] :P_

After a while, her focus shifted from the music to the musician; almost shy after an hour of living in the spell of his music. His hands captured her attention first; solid squarish palms, long fingers flying over the keys with such agile alacrity that it was almost inhuman. From this distance she could see that he bit his nails; a sliver of red edged his thumbnail. He bent over the piano, he swayed; an ashy blond curl caught in one of his eyebrows, but he never bothered to push it away. She wondered if he’d even noticed it.

> _[ nifa, 10:20] well????_
> 
> _[ nifa, 10:24] earth to Petra_
> 
> _[ nifa, 10:29] did you die of food poisoning???_
> 
> _[ nifa, 10:30] I’m calling the cops on_ Tonight.
> 
> _[ petra, 10:30] You are so pushy! I had some mozzarella sticks and caprese, and it’s all delicious._
> 
> _[ nifa, 10:31] was that so hard???_
> 
> _[ petra, 10:31] You also use way too many punctuation marks._
> 
> _[ nifa, 10:32] !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!??????????????!?!?!?!?!!?_
> 
> _[ petra, 10:33] You’re terrible. Now let me listen to the music in peace._
> 
> _[ nifa, 10:34] Right, right. The music. If you stay too late again and miss the last train, you can crash at my place._
> 
> _[ petra, 10:35] I think Dad would have an aneurysm if I didn’t come home tonight._
> 
> _[ nifa, 10:39]_ _L_ _he needs to relax, seriously._
> 
> _[ petra, 10:40] Work is stressing him out._
> 
> _[ nifa, 10:40] his, or yours?????_
> 
> _[ petra, 10:42] Both._

The pianist’s brow furrowed and his eyes clenched shut, rough features contorting into something pained. Sweat beaded at his brow; one drop tracked down the side of his face and pooled in the hollow at his throat. For a moment she worried that something was really wrong with him until he let out a shuddering breath, the chord settling beneath those graceful, lovely fingers, and her own breath caught. It was the music, then; it tangled him up too.

She was seized by a sudden, terrible impulse; to brush that stupid curl out of his eyes. _How isn’t that bothering him?_

Her father would undoubtedly be upset if she missed the train. He would assume the worst. He always assumed the worst; even when there was no reason to, he clutched at some distant, unlikely terror and let it consume him. There was a very small, uncharitable part of her that wanted him to learn to deal with it; she was an adult with a job, for god’s sake, she’d earned the right to a little freedom. These thoughts of rebellion always died two steps out of the gate, though – it would hurt him, she couldn’t do that, not after everything –

But she thought about it, watching the pianist. She didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay until _Tonight_ closed, listening to him weave a world of sunlight and shadow and need between the notes of his music.

The set ended with an indignant, incongruous chord, and the man stood, his gaze sweeping out over the room. Before she could ease her expression into something less intent, their eyes met. His eyes widened, mouth opening in surprise; he took a step back, as if she’d struck him. Before she could smile or anything, he stumbled backward and positively fled the stage, skirting past Levi and pushing outside before the shorter man could say a word.

She flushed with shame; her intensity probably seemed desperate, or worse, rude. Only a child without manners would stare so baldly, no matter how lovely his music had been.  She decided that moment; of course she should apologize. He was probably a regular act and she’d be coming back twice this week, and she couldn’t stand the thought of having made it awkward. Slipping into her coat, she slung her purse strap over her shoulder and made to follow, flashing Levi a friendly smile that he didn’t deserve before stepping out into the freezing darkness.

The pianist was smoking on the corner, inhaling with desperate fervor, one bare arm tucked across his stomach. The ember of his cigarette cast a weak band of illumination across his harrowed features. His hands trembled. So preoccupied was he that he didn’t notice her approach, not until she was close enough to see the goosebumps covering his arms.

“Aren’t you cold?” she asked before she could stop herself.

He jumped, and the cigarette flew out of his hand. “Jesus.”

“Oh, sorry – I’m sorry, I don’t –“ She flushed again, hands flapping uselessly, abruptly exasperated with herself. “Look, I just wanted to – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to creep you out or anything.”

He stared at her as if he’d never seen a human woman in his life, as if afraid she’d hurt him. His lips were nearly white. “N-nah, you’re fine.”

 “I won’t – I won’t bother you long, I know you probably have to get back soon. But I had to tell you – you’re incredible.”

His eyes widened. “W-what?”

“I-I mean, the music. Your playing is incredible. It’s just – it’s absolutely wonderful.” She smiled awkwardly, but her thoughts tumbled over one another in a furious reel, too quickly to contain or control. _Why are you being so weird?!_ She hastened to explain, anxiety animating her hands. “I listen to a lot of live music because of my job, and I’ve never heard anything like you before. You’re just – it felt alive. It was almost visual, like a story, I felt like I was watching what you were – what you played, I mean. It was just –“

 _Aren’t you supposed to be a writer?!_ She’d never expressed herself so badly in her entire life.

The silence between them lengthened. He was taller than he seemed on stage; she had to crane up meet his eyes. Even in the dark, she could see that they were hazel. And for a moment – maybe it was the darkness, or the spell of his music, the hours spent drinking in the sound of him, but for that one moment she felt like she knew them. “Thank you,” he said finally, his voice hoarse.

He clearly didn’t want to talk, and it was probably best that she stop too, before she said anything irredeemably stupid. She took a step away from him, smiling apologetically. Her face was starting to hurt from forcing it all day. “I’m sorry to bother you,” she said again. Before he could say anything, she turned and fled, pounding down the sidewalk so quickly that her thighs ached after only three blocks.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Auruo smoked another two cigarettes before he went back inside. His fingers trembled, sloughing off ash with every shuddering inhale, and his face had long since gone numb from the cold, but he couldn’t look away from the hazy point in the horizon where she’d disappeared, fringed with red taillights. A car tore down the wet streets, spattering his shoes with freezing rainwater.

Part of him expected to wake up. That was how this shit usually ended, after all; he was a professional when it came to these goddamn dreams. He’d open his eyes back in his room: drenched in sweat, heart wheeling desperately against his ribs, stare pinned to the ceiling until the room stopped spinning.

But the minutes lengthened and the dream didn’t end. Try as he might, he couldn’t ignore the cruel insistence of his senses; cold biting at his arms and nose, smoke seeping into his lungs, his traitorous heart pushing his pulse up his throat. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe –

_You’re incredible …_

He wanted to scream. It had been her face, exactly as he saw it nearly every night. The stranger had the same slightly upturned nose, cheekbones dusted with faded freckles, the same sweet mouth. Her eyes seared with intensity, in a color he had never seen. Yet he’d known it, somehow; he’d remembered it. The truth clawed at him, a feral thing; he had known her, he _knew_ her.

He was fumbling around his pockets for the half-empty carton when a sharp voice made him jump. “Auruo.”

“I’ll – just be another minute,” he chattered around the cigarette clamped between his teeth. Though his hands shuddered, he struck a flame and shielded it against the wind before taking an unsteady drag. The smoke pillowed at the bottom of his lungs and assaulted his head; he held his breath until his vision swam, and it hurt, it always hurt, he always woke up feeling like his skull was made of Styrofoam, breathing air that felt more like mud, but it was better, it was preferable –

Levi stepped around him and plucked the cigarette out of his fingers, and before Auruo could stop him he tossed it to the ground and crushed it beneath his heel with a disgusted sneer. “You’re going to give yourself lung cancer.”

Temper cut through his panic; he matched Levi’s sneer to exaggerated effect. “You know my great uncle smoked cigarettes until the day he died – eighty-six years old. D-didn’t give a shit ‘bout fucking lung cancer.”

“Moron. Don’t take an exception for a rule.”

“What do you care, anyway? You know those cost me money?”

“I’ll reimburse you, you fucking baby.” Sharp fingers bit into Auruo’s upper arm, and without preamble Levi dragged him away from the curb. “You’d have more money if you didn’t blow it on that shit in the first place.”

“Yeah, well, we all got our struggles.” He’d have tried to fight Levi off another day – tried being the operative word, as Levi was freakishly strong – but tonight he could hardly keep his feet as Levi hauled him through the side door, let alone shake the older man off. He was still breathless, heart galumphing weakly against narrowing ribs; he had the odd sensation of being both enslaved by his senses and disconnected from his body, and the extremes left him vague. “Jesus Christ – what’s your problem?” he gasped, rubbing circulation back into his arm.

Levi stared. His expression was almost impossible to read in the best of circumstances – all minute brow twitches and frowns you needed a microscope to decipher – but tonight Auruo couldn’t even tell if he was pissed or concerned, or annoyed, or sad.  “You have a set to finish.”

_Annoyed, probably._

He didn’t want to finish his set. He wanted to go home and drink every drop of alcohol in his apartment. He wanted to get so sauced that he couldn’t recognize his own face in the mirror. It would be an improvement; his was a lousy face, as far as he was concerned – craggy, gaunt, his oversized features always pinched with irritation or melancholy. Sarah used to say he had a nose like a can opener, and that he might as well put it to use one of these days, whatever that meant.

“Look, Levi, I’m gonna –“ _Throw up. Get shitfaced. Try to forget._

“You’re gonna finish your set,” Levi said firmly. “Without the crap.”

Auruo said nothing. There was something about Levi; even if his words weren’t comforting, you couldn’t help but feel comforted anyway. Auruo still wanted to refuse – the thought of comfortable oblivion was too tempting a prospect – but he couldn’t ignore a command from Levi, not after everything the man had done for him. So he carded a shaking hand through his hair, pushing a damp tendril off his forehead, and sucked in a sharp breath. “Yeah … okay.” He could manage a set if Levi wanted him to. He could conjure up something passable.

Then he’d go home and get shitfaced.

“Yeah,” he said again, rerolling his sleeves to his elbows and stretching his fingers, and strode out into the bar. He was fine. He never saw her face that clearly in those dreams anyway; it could just as easily be any woman with bright auburn hair, a hypothetical legion with those same features, varied enough for it to be realistic. He was overreacting again.

Levi’s stare bore a hole through the back of his neck. Wincing, he launched into an awkward rendition of _Autumn Leaves_ , the melody clattering out of his right hand like a photocopier crashing down the stairs. It wasn’t the worst he’d ever performed – that dubious honor went to his sophomore recital and some very badly-timed food poisoning – but it definitely made the top three. The fact that only Levi and two random patrons were left to hear him hack through beloved jazz standards was his sole comfort.

This set had none of the magic of his first – he skirted around the beckoning realization in his thoughts, cordoned off whole swaths of himself, and left almost nothing to draw from. When the music wasn’t clumsy, it lingered flatly in the ear, devoid of a heartbeat. At one point, he no longer felt the piano beneath his hands.

 _You’re incredible_ , she had said. _I-I mean, the music._  He might have preened in another life, swaggered; he’d impressed a beautiful woman enough with his skill that she sought him out, followed him outside just to tell him how great he was. And she had been beautiful … even without the fucking dreams, that would have knocked him on his ass.

More than that, though …  her eyes, in that impossible color; they danced, they pierced, they _burned_ him. There were no secrets from that gaze; no places to hide, nothing stopping her from cutting the truth right out of his head with a simple glance.

His fingers slipped, crumpling into a strident cluster tone. _Stupid._

By the time the bar had emptied out, Auruo was spent. His back ached, radiating up his neck, shoulders wound tight with a thousand knots; the obvious result of his shitty posture. He could almost hear his old professor yelling at him, her withered face bright with anger: _This is why we bother!_ she’d screeched, pinching his wrist. _You’re going to give yourself arthritis at thirty!_ He’d snorted at her dramatics. 

Before he left, though, he helped Levi bus down the bar; wiped tables and swept up napkin scraps and bits of French fries kicked under the booths while Levi did the dishes and scoured the kitchen, his expression flat and unreadable. Every now and then he’d look up at Auruo and his brows would furrow, some unmet expectation in his eyes, and it made Auruo so nervous he kept his gaze pinned to the floor as he mopped, watching swirls of soap coil around his shoes without really seeing. 

He knew the reason for that pointed stare; he was going to get fired. Even setting aside his humiliating performance, he’d acted like an unstable, irresponsible moron tonight, completely melting down over some random woman. As far as Levi knew, she was nothing and nobody – just a stranger, one of millions. How could he know any differently? Auruo hadn’t said anything about it – first because he had no interest divulging his hallucinations to a man who tolerated no nonsense and bullshit whatsoever, now because he wouldn’t even know where to begin. _So I have these dreams . . . except they’re not dreams?_

That old guillotine came down, locking them away. It didn’t matter, it didn’t matter, it wasn’t real. Random coincidence, a fluke of chance. It meant nothing.

_I’ve never heard anything like you before …_

“I called you a cab,” Levi said from across the room, startling him so badly that he dropped his mop.

“Geez. I ain’t wasting my money on that crap.”

“I took care of it.”

“Nah, nah, you’re not –“

Levi silenced him with an icy look. “It’s coming out of your paycheck, idiot.”

Except it never did, and Auruo looked too – finances were the only thing in his life that he kept a strict eye on. He was afraid to demand clarification, though, or make sure that he wasn’t actually fired, so he kept his mouth shut and nodded, and pushed the mop from one end of the floor to another.

It was almost 3am when they finished cleaning the bar; Auruo followed Levi out into the freezing November night, chafing his arms as Levi locked the door. The cab waited on the curb, plumes of exhaust coiling up from the back bumper, and Auruo pulled the door open, tossing his bag inside. For a moment Levi looked as if he wanted to say something else, but the moment passed. “See you tomorrow,” Levi said, and it sounded a little like a threat, a little like a promise.

“Yeah.” Auruo’s returning wave was half-hearted at best.

The cab peeled away from the curb; this far from the center of the city the driver didn’t have to bully his way into the street. He watched the lights splash over his window as the cab wove through the backstreets, _24-Hour PAWN_ and _Agnellini’s Pizza_ and _Wash ‘n Dry._ The cabbie tuned the radio to something clamorous and Russian, not that Auruo knew the difference. One of those Eastern European languages. It was nice to listen to, actually; it filled his ears without begging to be understood, pushing the other thoughts away.

He was so distracted that he forgot to tell the cabbie to take him to the Metra station so he could get his bike; the next thing he knew he was blinking up at his apartment building, its dark windows gaping like a dozen eye empty sockets. A shudder rippled up his back.

At least he didn’t have to haul his bike upstairs tonight. Chewing on his tongue, he clomped up six excruciating flights and shambled down the hall to his apartment, fumbling through his pockets for the key. It would just figure if he’d lost it … but no, his fingers closed around the grimy brass in the next moment, and he unlocked the door and pushed inside before anything else could go wrong.

There was no relief here either; and he cursed himself for half-expecting it. He hated this fucking apartment; hated the filth and the shitty neighbors and the terrible floor plan, one that put the kitchen in a hallway so narrow he couldn’t open the oven door all the way without denting the crap out of the wall.

Most of all, he hated the bedroom. He didn’t even look at it tonight.

He tossed his keys on the laminate countertop and dropped clumsily to his knees, rummaging through his cupboards, shoving aside paper plates and a half-empty package of napkins. He knew Levi had a problem with it, but Levi wasn’t here right now, Levi wasn’t lurking alone in his haunted apartment, trying to outrun a ghost. (But she wasn’t a ghost, was she? She was there, she was real, she was somewhere in this world, in this very city, and she’d looked right up at him with those incredible amber eyes, right through him …) Levi could sit and spin as far as he was concerned. When his fingers brushed the curved glass, Auruo nearly sobbed.   

_You’re incredible . . ._

He brought the bottle to his lips, and closed his eyes, and drank, and drank, and drank.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

~

The dreams started on his twelfth birthday. They came with sudden, tragic violence, like the breaking of bones.

_A red forest, and three shadows. He is among them, weaving in and out of their path, knowing without knowing where they would be, what they were thinking. Further behind are more shadows, larger, with teeth like razors reflecting the light. He is among the bright wraiths, though, and they are not afraid. Not at first._

_One falls in a flash of silver and white and spurting red, pinned by his feet to a tree branch, swaying in the wind._

_One falls in halves, bitten apart; the beast spits him out a piece at a time._

_And then they are two, racing through the red forest, and he feels his heartbeat in his neck, and his eyes are wrenched wide, but all he can see is shadow and mist, all he can hear is the wind whistling in his ears. A flash at the edge of his sight --_

_A scream, her name ripping out of his throat, and the shadow slams its foot down, crushing her like a grape. One falls a gory streak of green and amber and red against the trees. He’s staring at the place she’d been, where now is a smear of blood and guts, a flash of bone – And it’s like being dead already, being the last of them – it’s like having pieces of himself carved out with an uncaring hand. It’s like dying, losing her. It feels like dying._

_He howls, columns of shivering silver in his hands. The forest breathes. And the shadow waits for him, fixing him with a single, blue eye._

He woke already screaming, whistling hoarsely from a paralyzed throat. His back was broken, he couldn’t move, couldn’t feel his arms and legs, couldn’t remember who he was; all he could do was stare up at the ceiling as the breath was slowly crushed from his lungs and pray for some kind of end. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want them to die either, those three shadows. By the time his parents barged into his room, he was completely insensible, howling and thrashing in their arms, clawing at nothing.

He spent the day clinging to the toilet, throwing up everything he ever ate, then retching until his throat ached. He’d seen them, the dark shadow’s head dangling by a thread, the blond shadow’s entrails leaking out of his torso, the woman’s body smeared on the base of the tree like lumpy paint. He remembered what it felt like when his spine shattered – a thousand years of pain in a pinpoint.

His mother sat by him and rubbed his back and brought him water. “It was just a dream,” she told him, “and dreams can’t hurt you.” And that first day, he’d believed her.

He didn’t expect to have the dream again. That was the deal with nightmares; everyone had them, and they passed -- with as much difficulty as a bad meal sometimes, but they passed. But he had it again, and the night after, and the night after – he had it every single night since the first, with no reprieve, and no true rest. After a month, he realized that these were no ordinary nightmares, and the standard rules no longer applied. You couldn’t just make some hot chocolate and let your thoughts settle naturally, like mist over mountains, and let the fear fade. These shadows would not be banished so easily.

He didn’t know how to deal with it then. He was a haunted kid, tailed by his ghosts; he lost his appetite and shed weight like water, and abandoned his interests and hobbies, retreating completely into himself.  He hadn't been well-liked by his peers before; now they avoided him outright, sensing perhaps that something was wrong with him, the way animals know to avoid the rabid. Nothing distracted him enough to be worth the effort. They were always there, hovering over his shoulders, lurking in his path. There was nothing loud enough to drown out their whispering, nothing bright enough to blot out the sight of their bodies in the grass. He saw them everywhere.

One day, after months of withering, his father came home from work with a Casio keyboard in his arms, just like the one Auruo had wanted for years, complete with real weighted keys and a sustaining pedal. It was a beautiful instrument, and so far outside their means that he knew what it meant, what this gift had taken. From then on, only his family and the piano anchored him to the world. He spent the summer hunched over its keys, filling their tiny house with sound, because here was a way he didn’t have to think about anything, or remember anything – he only thought of the music, how annoying it was to learn notation, how much he wished his fingerspan was wider so he could play larger intervals, and that was all. He retreated in the music. It gave him an outlet, and an acceptable excuse for his madness. _What artist isn’t crazy, right?_

And so it went. He played his piano and swallowed his screams and carried on as if nothing was wrong, and the years passed. He wanted to hate them. Nothing would have brought him more comfort than to despise his tormentors, but every morning he woke grieving for them, aching for _her_ , and no matter what he told himself, he always knew deep down, somewhere buried beneath his bones, that the grief was too strong to belong to a shadow.  

~

Auruo woke face down in the bathroom. Cold tile pressed against his cheek; when he opened his eyes and lifted his head, an empty bottle of whiskey rolled across the floor, thunking against the base of the sink. He groaned as a lance of nausea tied his gut to knots. His eyes ached; the roof of his mouth tasted like dry cardboard and stale cigarettes. It felt like a raccoon had died in his brain.

He was never drinking again.

(At least until the next desperate meltdown).

Groaning, he rolled on his back and dug around his pocket for his phone, swiping his thumb across the screen. _11:48am._ Briefly he considered catching the earliest train and high-tailing it to work, but then he remembered that his bike was still at the Metra station, and he’d have to walk to get there, and he hadn’t showered or eaten in too long, and his skull was still reverberating from his unfortunate choices the night before. Just the prospect of getting off his bathroom floor seemed impossible; the station might as well have been Mt. Everest.

_You’re incredible … I-I mean, the music._

Before he could reconsider it, he sent off a hasty message to his boss: _Taking some PTO this week. Sick._ In a manner of speaking, it was true.

Standing laboriously, he pushed out of the bathroom and shuffled to the kitchen, wincing against the light. _Where the fuck are my sunglasse_ s? Probably still in Iowa, with most of his other crap. He’d been living here for four years and still couldn’t get his shit together. He poured himself a glass of water and contemplated his utter disgrace as a human being.

Chewing the side of his tongue, he checked his messages. He had eight new texts from Benoit, all of them sent over the last five hours. Swallowing guiltily, he opened to read:

 

> _[ benny, 7:03] you on your way to work?_
> 
> _[ benny, 8:44] you’re probably really busy at work but could you text me when you get this?_
> 
> _[ benny, 9:39] Christophe won’t stop blasting his dumb screechy rock and it’s giving me a migraine. I guess he doesn’t know six other people live here! I tried to remind him and he slammed the door in my face. I’m pretty sure I never annoyed you this much._
> 
> _[ benny, 9:39] right? :(_
> 
> _[ benny, 10:10] I found one of your Bill Evans LPs! I’ll bring it over when I come._
> 
> _[ benny, 10:45] People are leaving really sad messages on my Facebook, like I’ve died or something, instead of graduated early. ‘we’ll never forget you!’ Yikes._
> 
> _[ benny, 10:47] lmao here’s one: ‘Everything is so weird with you gone!’ I spoke to this girl maybe three times in four years, and two of those times was her asking to borrow a pencil._
> 
> _[ benny, 11:02] I wonder if it’s a Facebook thing. Everything is so performative AND competitive, they all have to see who can out-wail each other, or out-excite, etc. You know what I’m saying? No one really cares that I’m gone, but they have to be seen caring, because they want to look like a person that cares, so they have to make sure they do it well, and loudly._
> 
> _[ auruo, 11:51] yikes is right!!! When'd you get so bitter?_
> 
> _[ benny, 11:51] I’m not!_
> 
> _[ auruo, 11:52] anyway how’d you remember those conversations with that girl so well, huh bud??? :P_
> 
> _[ benny, 11:53] Shut up._
> 
> _[ auruo, 11:53] >:)_
> 
> _[ auruo, 11:53] so I’m here, whatchu need?_
> 
> _[ benny, 11:54] Nothing really. Just wanted to talk to you._

Auruo closed his eyes. His younger brother was a better person than he was in every respect; kinder, smarter, more hard-working, with early acceptances to schools that would have laughed themselves sick at Auruo’s application, yet for some reason this exceptional kid thought he hung the moon. 

 

> _[ auruo, 11:56 ] well u got me for the day. I called in sick_
> 
> _[ benny, 11:56] you’re sick???_
> 
> _[ auruo, 11:57] geez, calm down. It’s nothing serious._
> 
> _[ benny, 11:57] You always say that._

He rubbed his eyes and downed another glass of water, letting the morning seep into him. The light was hazy, the color of a gull’s wing; the tenant below him was blasting some salsa; the tricky faucet in his bathroom dripped, at intervals too uneven to predict. He hadn’t dreamed of anything last night.

This was what he wanted; after all these years, more than anything he wanted to dream of nothing.  And he had, finally he had, but it came as no relief. Now he knew that she wasn’t a dream; she was a flesh and blood person in the same world, the same city, a woman with a history and a life that he longed to know. A woman who was more than the scar of her shape.

_You’re incredible …_

He sucked in a sharp breath. It didn’t matter. He’d probably never see her again, not awake anyway. And that was probably for the best.

His phone buzzed, nearly vibrating out of his loose grip. He fumbled clumsily for it, snatching it out of the air and answering it before the call could drop. “What?”

“Auruo.” Not a question, which meant it could only be one person.

“What?”

“Are you at your other job?”

He hesitated, trying to gauge by his tone of voice whether Levi would bother with the lecture if he decided to tell the truth. “I’m taking some PTO.”

He braced for the goddamn lecture anyway, but Levi surprised him. “Good.” _Good?_ “I got something I need you to do for me.”

“Well, that’s mysterious. Need me to help with a body or some shit?”

“Moron. Cram the lip and get over here as soon as you can.”

That, he could do. “Yes, sir,” he drawled, but the insouciant effect was lost on the phone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry this update took me so long! thanks as always for reading :)

Nifa shoved her bag aside and leaned over the table, her stare razor-keen -- the penetrating regard of a journalist. "Tell me exactly what happened."

Petra hid her face behind her hands. "Don't make me talk about this."

"Come on, it can't have been that bad."

"It was that bad. It was worse."

Au Bon Pain during the late lunch rush was busy enough to drown out an account of her miserable evening; a cheerful cacophony of rain pelting the windows and silverware scraping on plates and bowls, and beneath it a swell of a dozen conversations, punctuated every now and then by warm laughter, the kind shared between friends. Nifa paid no attention to any of it; instead, she gestured forcefully at Petra with her panini. "You're in dire need of perspective."

"Is that what this is about? You're not just sniffing around for drama?"

Nifa gave her an innocent smile. "Can't it be both?"

"There it is."

"Listen, you look miserable. You have circles under your eyes, and your hair is all flyaway. You didn't even put on makeup." She affected a portentous tone. "Lay your burdens at my feet, dear Petra. Let me carry them for you."

"I didn't get that much sleep," Petra admitted. "It was ... ugh. I don't even know where to start."

"Start at --"

"Don't say the beginning."

Nifa had the grace to look slightly abashed. "You were having a nice time when I texted."

"I was! It's a really great place. Much better than the places Stevens usually sends me to. Almost too nice to be a bar, you know? I'd probably have gone back in my free time if I hadn't made an absolute idiot out of myself." Petra closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, mastering the impulse to groan. "I can't even think about it."

"I bet it's not as bad as you're making it sound."

"Because I overreact."

"Just a little," Nifa said, not unkindly. "It's better than the alternative."

"Why does it have to be one or another?"

"Because you're a person, and people are like that," Nifa said.  "Was the owner a jerk or something?"

"No -- I mean, he was, but that's not it." The memory of the previous night floated into her thoughts, hopelessly tangling everything else into an irrevocable mass of anxiety. It was bad enough that she had another short spot to finish, and groceries to get, and finances to balance, and another frustrating evening with her father in store; worse to have it colored by humiliation. With a steadying huff of breath, she pressed her hands flat on her thighs and tried not to let the shame consume her. She was a professional, damn it. "It was the pianist, I -- I made things awkward."

"You've always had a thing for musicians," Nifa noted.

"They have nice hands," Petra said defensively. "And that's -- stop looking at me like that. It wasn't a thing." To her dismay, she'd never sounded less convincing in her life. There was no excuse for this lapse; she didn't know the pianist, and more to the point, hiding her true feelings beneath a kind voice and a smile was as natural to her as breathing. "It wasn't like that," she said again, uselessly.

"Right, sorry. Continue."

"So I was listening -- pretty intently, I suppose. It's just that I've never heard anything like him before. The way he played, it was like watching it, almost -- like watching it take shape around you. Not just sound, but a complete sensation. And you could tell it was like that for him too, that it was coming from some place you wouldn't be able to talk about, even if you wanted to."

Nifa swallowed a rude mouthful of panini. "The tortured affect."

"Kind of. Except you could tell he wasn't moving around and leaning into it to make himself look interesting, it really did move him. And it hurt too. Sometimes it seemed like he didn't even know there were other people around him. So it wasn't completely my fault," she said, defensive. "He was interesting. You'd have stared too."

Nifa blinked. "You're upset because he caught you staring?"

When she put it like that, it really did seem like an overreaction. "It wasn't just staring, I was -- he must have felt like he was being dissected. I'm sure I would have, if I was in his shoes. You should have seen the way he looked at me -- like I'd stabbed him or jeered and called him a hack, or something."

"Weird."

"I know," she said miserably. "I'm not usually so bad."

"I meant that he's weird," Nifa said, eyebrows quirking. 

"It's -- it wasn't," Petra said; compelled to the pianist's defense. He was the victim, here; she was the creepy one. "How would you react if after giving an intense, physically exhausting performance you saw some stranger hovering by the half-stage barely an armspan away eye-fucking your hands?"

"Petra!" Nifa was scandalized. "You must be upset if you're using that language." A pause while she crumpled her napkin into a ball and tossed it on top of her plate, then she leaned closer, her eyes saucer wide. "Were you really?"

"You're going to get sauce on your sleeve," Petra said, gently moving her friend's arm away from her plate.

"Were you?!"

There was no escape. "He had nice hands," she said, defeated. "Anyway, he ran out, so I got up to follow. I had to apologize, right? I'm coming back twice more this week and he'll probably be there. And I didn't want to give him the wrong idea, so I figured I should clear things up, right?"

"Oh, no."

"Exactly. I should have just gone home." The memory of the awkward conversation brought a hot flush to her cheeks. "I'm falling all over myself trying to apologize, and before I know it I'm just blathering on about how he's incredible, the music was so wonderful, I see all kinds and his was so far above the rest that it shook me -- I should have just left it, but I needed to explain myself -- not that I thought it would do any good, but it was the right thing to do." She fell silent, the final shame threatening to crush her mood entirely. "He looked at me like an alien."

"Oh my god.”

Her frustration boiled over. "Why does it matter so much to me? He's a stranger; after this assignment, I'll never see him again. I have to do my job, that's the end of it. It wasn't that big of a deal, he probably gets stared at all the time, it's just ... he just looked so upset that I felt like a monster. And I made it worse trying to make it better. That's the worst part."

"You need to stop feeling guilty all the time," Nifa said, brows tenting with concern. "You didn't do anything wrong. I mean, yeah it was a little intense but it's not like you were hurting him."

"I suppose."

"Seriously. You probably just startled him. Some people overreact, you know."

This time she ignored the tease. "It wasn't even the worst part of the night. When I got home, Dad was upset. We ... argued."

Nifa's expression flattened. "What's crawled up his tailpipe this time."

"Don't. He's just worried about me, that's all."

"He's upset he doesn't get to control your every waking moment so he throws a tantrum about it to make you feel bad."

Petra wouldn't deny she'd suspected the very thing last night, but it felt like a betrayal to agree. "It wasn't a tantrum, it was just -- the city is dangerous, you know."

"Sure, but everything's dangerous. His job is dangerous. He could get shot just as easy as you; some jerk decides he wants to rob a bakery and bam. Or he could get hit by a car. Or mugged. Or he could get --" Nifa trailed off, looking stricken. 

"Get sick," Petra finished quietly.

"My point is, it doesn't matter where you are, there are creeps all over. And you can't let it get in the way of your life! Of course you should be proactive and smart, but you are. You always take precautions, you never do anything reckless. Even in college, which is when you're supposed to do crazy things and get it all out of your system."

"I was too," Petra argued. "I went to crazy parties."

"You went to a few because I begged. I pleaded. I was very pathetic."

"You were pushy," Petra clarified.

"Look, you're twenty-five. You've had a decent, steady job for three years. You want to move out, but every time you make even the slightest noise about it or act a little too independent, he collapses in these very conveniently timed anxious fits, where he has to know exactly where you are and what you're doing at all times, and if you don't tell him it's because you don't care. He talks about your job the same way too, like you went and got a job in the city specifically to upset him. It's sick."

"Don't --"

"No, I won't! I'm going to tell you exactly what I think about it, because maybe it'll sink in one of these days. It's shitty, what he does. He doesn't get to dictate how you live your life just because he's a widower."

"You don't understand," Petra said, shaking her head. "After she died, he just -- he fell completely apart. He stopped coming in to work, pushed it all off on Mr. Samuels. And you should have seen the house, it was like a colony of raccoons had moved in. It took me a week to clean the place. He would have wasted away if I hadn't come home. I can't ... if I left, he'd just sink right back into that."

Nifa's eyes were shrewd. "How do you know?"

 _Crap_. "He said as much last night," Petra confessed. "Not in those words. It's not that bad, though. It's the truth, isn't it?"

"You don't see a problem here? He won't even try. And it doesn't give him the right -- no, it doesn't! It doesn't give him the right to lean on you about it. God, if you moved away it's not like you'd be moving to the damn moon."

"It'd be something on the south side, probably," she said immediately. There were a few apartment complexes she liked to look at when she was feeling depressed; they weren't anything particularly fancy, but independence was a nice daydream.  Maybe someday, maybe if her father made some friends, maybe if he met someone, maybe ...

"Exactly. You could literally visit every weekend if he needs that much help and attention. You wouldn't have to spend almost four hours a day commuting. It'd work so well for everyone if he just gave you some space."

When it came to this topic, Nifa refused to give any ground; they'd been friends too long, and you couldn't fault a friend for being upset on your behalf, even if that reaction was misplaced. "You're right," Petra said finally, anxious to make peace. "I'll -- I don't know. It's not so ba-"

"Don't say 'it's not so bad' ever again." But Nifa bit her lip against a fond smile. "Alright, I'll stop lecturing. Just -- try to remember it doesn't have to be like this."

"I know," Petra said, more in in the interest of peacekeeping. She knew that's how Nifa felt; she didn't know if she agreed. "Thanks for letting me complain."

"It's my turn tomorrow," Nifa said as they stood and collected their plates. "And I got a big one."

"You should have said something."

"Yeah, maybe. But I wanted to hear about your big _Tonight_ adventure."

Petra wiggled hands half-heartedly, an entertainer's gesture. "I hope it didn't disappoint."

"Not at all. Tell me more about the weirdo pianist."

Petra left her hanging only as long as it took for them to push through the waning lunch crowd and into the lobby, winding their way to a half-empty elevator. "He needed a haircut."

~

It was dusk by the time Auruo made it back to the bar; faint pink light stained the hazy horizon, half-shrouded by heavy clouds overhead, their underbellies mottled muddy red and grey. It was probably going to rain again. He could never decide if the sound of rain was soothing or excruciating; more often than not, it depended on his mood. Sleepless and irritable, he'd curse the incessant noise; anxious and heartsore, he'd welcome the subtle background hush behind more strident intrusions.

He parked Levi's truck in the narrow lot behind the bar and unloaded the trunk, stacking cardboard boxes by the back exit. A wet chill hung in the air, filled his raw lungs. He'd never admit as much to Levi, but last night especially, his smoking was out of control. Drinking too, he chastised himself. He knew it was time to put his vices to rest and face himself and his failure to exist normally. He could stand to save a little more money, anyway. Maybe he'd save enough to finally move out of his shitty apartment. He'd take better care of the new one.  He'd throw out old food in the fridge. He'd vacuum every week. (Maybe every other week).

Levi stepped out into the cold, jacketless as always, propping open the door with a wooden wedge. "Wasn't expecting you back for another few hours."

"Traffic was pretty good."

He'd popped down to Joliet for Levi's monthly bulk order of napkins; it cost less to drive down himself than pay for delivery.  Not to mention, he'd appreciated the chance to let his mind wander; the task required enough of his concentration that he couldn't overthink or obsess, but left him free to speculate from a distance, his thoughts rolling along with the passing landscape, a muddy grey blur. It allowed him to think about his family, to wonder about distant places, turn chords over in his head; it allowed him a lifetime of space between himself and the woman from his nightmare. Part of him wondered if Levi knew this, and the gesture was another facet of his strange kindness.

Levi nodded. "Help me get these inside."

 _Probably not._ He had his own crap to worry about. Auruo hefted two boxes and stepped inside, craning over his shoulder. "Where's Greg? Isn't he supposed to handle this shit?"

"He quit."

Auruo blinked. "What the fuck?"

"He got a better offer somewhere, I don't know. It doesn't matter."

"Bet he didn't give you any notice," Auruo groused, abruptly angry. "Am I right?"

"He probably didn't know he was quitting until this morning."

"He probably forgets to wipe his own crusty ass without his mommy reminding him."

Levi's lips twisted, threatening a smirk -- rare as a harvest moon.

Greg himself was no big loss -- a below-average cook who was chummy in the most insincere manner possible, like he cared more about the attention than its source -- but Levi had already been short-staffed before he quit. And as far as Auruo knew, it was impossible to run an entire establishment by yourself in the long term. He opened his mouth to offer --

\-- and promptly swallowed it, his heart sinking. He was still half-afraid Levi would fire him for his meltdown last night, or worse, so he'd spent the half the afternoon planning his apology, and half talking himself out of it. _I was fried from work / had a shitty customer that took me all morning / everything's falling apart in my apartment / it's been a rough few years._ Ultimately, he decided it was a dumb idea; nothing irritated Levi more than groveling or excuses. Who knew how much he'd hate a pathetic combination.

Levi wedged the last of the boxes in the back of the pantry and nudged the door shut with his heel. "How much PTO did you take?"

Auruo leaned against the counter and forced himself not to swallow conspicuously. "I dunno ... I was thinking just today, unless you need me for somethin' else."

Levi's expression had emptied of any amusement; he fixed Auruo with a probing stare, as if attempting to root out the contents of his thoughts while sidestepping the inconvenient task of asking questions. His eyes were fathomless, inscrutable. He cut an odd figure in his immaculate kitchen, with his black hair and clothes; a single point of darkness in sterile light. "I need some help around here."

It was like Levi could read his mind, sometimes. Normally it scared the shit out of him, but the pity implicit in the offer raised Auruo's hackles. “Look, if this is about last--"

"You'd be doing me a favor," Levi said firmly. "Is that a yes or no?"

Auruo waited for the catch. Truthfully, he wanted nothing more than to work in Levi's place; the money could be better, but that was true of everything. As far as he was concerned, nothing beat the atmosphere Levi had painstakingly cultivated after years of ownership, the space he'd cut out for himself in a teeming sea of competition. He'd prefer Levi to his boss at the office supply company, he'd prefer the work -- cooking, cleaning, playing music. When no catch or qualification came, Auruo shrugged, palms out. "Yeah, I'll help. Sure." He managed an awkward grin. "You don't even have to ask."

 "Is that right."

"Your bar's a lot nicer than my shitty job." Out of respect for Levi's discomfort with such things, he left the rest unspoken: he would probably follow Levi across the country if it came to something like that. Levi had seen a depressed sack of shit moping on his street corner and given him a job. What's more, he'd given Auruo a space of his own; the stage with his beat-up Yamaha upright, keys worn from decades of use. There was nothing better, or kinder.

"You think you can handle the kitchen yourself tonight?" Levi asked him.

"Yeah. Tuesdays aren't that busy." A worrying thought took hold. "What are you going to do for the weekend? You need me to work the kitchen instead?"

Levi crossed his arms and closed his eyes, leaning against the bar. "It'd be harder for me to find a replacement act."

"Right." Of course it was; sometimes he forgot that what he did was difficult and uncommon. 

"I put up the sign in the window and sent a help wanted to a few papers." Levi shrugged. "But it won't make that much of a difference even if I hired someone else. I used to run this place alone."

"You said you only had to for a month. And that it was a shitty month."

"I still did it." Levi's expression contorted with annoyance. "You remember the dumbest shit."

 Auruo tapped his temple. "Like a steel trap."

"Weren't you whining last week about forgetting to pay your electric bill again."

"Bills are different," Auruo blurted, indignant.  

"Yeah," Levi said flatly. "They're more important."

From outside, the bell above the entrance jangled, and without another word Levi turned and strode out of the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind him. Auruo glanced at the clock over the doorway before rummaging through the industrial cupboards for the necessary cookware.

Alone, without the benefit of passing landscape to distract him, the memories descended. He hadn't mentioned the woman, and Levi hadn't brought it up, for all the good that had done; she rose beneath his eyelids regardless, her eyes, her mouth, her _voice_. He'd never heard her voice in the dreams, but what he remembered fit her perfectly; sweet as a song, with more than a hint of steel beneath. He could easily imagine her arguing, encouraging, laughing -- it was all there in the tone, the timbre. 

The hardened, bitter part of him formed by a lifetime of insane nightmares never wanted to see her again. There was a reason for these dreams, he felt, and it wasn't good. But beneath the cynicism ran a stronger current; he wanted to know her, now that he knew it was possible. He wanted to listen to her, wanted to see her like a normal person would have; a lovely face in the audience, with no history attached. She'd have still liked his music, and he'd have had more of a chance to handle the praise like a creature capable of communicating its sentience.

He sighed, digging through the refrigerator, and shoved the thoughts aside. He probably would never see her again, and that was for the best. By now, there wasn't a natural conclusion to this train of thought, only a hail of excuses -- he was projecting, he was lonely, he was looking for an explanation where there was none. Maybe he had food poisoning.

_You're incredible ..._

He chewed on the edge of his tongue, sucking on his teeth. A tremor shivered up his arms. There was no way that she'd come back, not after the way he’d looked at her.

No way.

His eyes slid toward the door.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dedicated to [xelanul](http://xelanul.tumblr.com) for her birthday!!

By midnight, it had started to rain again, and _Tonight_ was empty. The last patrons had slipped away somehow without Levi noticing – he only realized when the door smacked rhythmically against the outer wall, and cold air swept inside, freezing mist speckling the dim room.   Scowling, he crossed the bar and heaved it shut with a grunt of effort. It was apparently too much to expect people close doors properly in this city. But there was too much to do around here to spare an afternoon fixing the shitty thing. Levi twisted the lock shut and flipped the sign in the window, half obscured by condensation.

Above the background hush of rain, Auruo picked at the piano with tight, tentative chords, slipping into a melody that crept along, as if anxious not to be heard.  Levi didn’t think he knew this one.

“Oi,” Levi called, cupping his mouth. “Help me in the kitchen.”

The creeping melody abruptly cut off. With a tight exhale, Auruo flipped the lid down, and the struck wood made a tragic, ringing sound, the strings shivering into stillness. He disentangled himself from the piano, stepping awkwardly over the bench and pushing his disheveled hair off his furrowed brow. He didn’t even bother to grouch about the terse summons, which would have alerted Levi to trouble if trouble hadn’t been dogging his heels the last few days already.

He dug his nails into the ridge of his thumb. Irritation and anxiety gnawed at him, a thousand worries orbiting his thoughts: figured that everything was falling apart, now of all times, the front door and the sinks in the bathroom; and that he needed to print new menus, he probably needed to come up with a new one, if he really cared to think about it; and that he got ditched by his cook the week a reporter came snooping around.

He’d have been put off in the best of circumstances, even if it had been a stranger sticking their big nose where it didn’t belong, a leftover association from his youth. That didn’t matter here; this wasn’t just any reporter, but an infuriatingly specific headache.

Auruo slouched into the kitchen, flinching when the door swung shut behind him. Before Levi could direct him, he’d plunged his arms into the washbasin with his usual staunch tolerance, though Levi knew he hated it – something about the feel of soggy food and cold water, or wrinkled fingers being unpleasant to play with, or something else, always something else; he could never remember Auruo’s extensive closet of complaints. It was better than the quiet, though, the haunting quiet.

“Listen,” said Levi, shifting back on his heels. “About that woman that was here the other night.”

Auruo froze mid-gesture, his scrawny shoulders going tight. “What about her?” he said casually, but his voice cracked on the last word. A tumbler hit the bottom of the basin with a watery _thunk_.

 _Christ_. He couldn’t have been more obvious if he tried. “She said she’s a reporter.” Levi fought to suppress a shiver, like he’d trodden over a poorly-kept grave. “She’s doing a _little piece_ on my place.” 

“Why should that matter to me?”

Irritation boiled up in him. “Because any moron with half a brain would appreciate the warning,” he snapped. “Since you’re gonna need to put together six sets.”

“You don’t have any other acts?” Auruo bleated in dismay. “Saturday, either?”  

“This isn’t a good time of year,” Levi muttered sourly. “You’re getting paid, you know.”

“Christ.” Auruo scrubbed at his face with a shaking hand, inadvertently smearing his brow with soap. “It’s not about the goddamn money. I’m not taking more than usual from you, anyway.” 

 _Here it comes,_ Levi thought, bracing himself. “Don’t be stupid.”

The worst part was if Auruo told him that he couldn’t do it, Levi wouldn’t press – he couldn’t bring himself to, no matter how desperate the situation was. He might swear about it, or indulge in various forms of unpleasantness until it eased the snarl of fear and frustration in his chest, but he wouldn’t force the issue. He couldn’t without remembering:

It had been another Wednesday, another grey afternoon in November, when Levi stumbled over the corpse huddled on his corner. Wet hair plastered to his ashen forehead. He was horribly gaunt, nearly on the edge of starvation; hollowed cheeks, eyes dull and distant, his hands like pale spiders on the battered keyboard. There was no flash of recognition in his gaze, though to Levi he was painfully, instantly familiar, one of the four he’d failed.

Not a corpse, but a ghost _,_ Levi thought, his gorge rising. _I’ve seen a ghost._

They stared at each other in silence. It was a bad idea, he knew. The kid would be more trouble that he was worth, you could see it all over him. _Just keep your nose out of it._ But by then Levi was already making the offer, and the ghost was blinking up at him, perplexed, and it was too late to take it back.

He couldn’t deny that it had done Auruo some good, though. In the years since Levi found him shivering on that corner, he’d put on some weight, and his features looked less haunted, if only marginally. Levi figured the piano was responsible for most of it. He really did love that shitty thing.

But clearly that comfort only went so far. Auruo’s brow crumpled, his mouth pressing into a hard, trembling line. For a moment, Levi nearly felt the confession burgeoning in the thickening silence like a thunderstorm, but a long sigh loosened Auruo’s shoulders, and the horrible moment passed. “Could I bring in some bass and drums? Mix things up a little, at least.”

“If you know some, by all means. Make my life easier.”

“I mean, because you’d have to –”

“Like I said,” Levi cut in; Auruo cared more about the money this place made than he did. At times the concern was comforting, but today it chafed. “It’s no good for me if you’re repeating the same material the night some professional’s actually paying attention.”

A look of brief challenge flashed across Auruo’s haggard features, just like Levi knew it would – he could never resist a goad. “You know, I played the same chart three times in one night and you never even noticed, not a thing.”

“That you know of. Maybe I kept quiet about it, figured you’d know better than to do it again.”

“You couldn’t tell,” Auruo said firmly, a ghost of a smirk turning his mouth. “I made sure. Why’s this the first I’m hearing about it, otherwise?”

Levi made a terse gesture, turning away from Auruo’s smug expression. “Alright, get the hell out of here. And don’t be late tomorrow, you understand me? We got a lot to do around here.”

“Wouldn’t dare.”

Levi listened for the sound of the backdoor thudding against its frame before he resumed scouring his filthy countertop, grinding his teeth slowly back and forth, side to side. Auruo probably couldn’t read his mind, but he preferred to think about this crazy shit when he was alone, just in case. The usual rules clearly didn’t apply.

He fought back a shudder. It was manageable when it had only been a suspicion, an indulgent bit of superstition to explain the inexplicable. Nightmares, bad trips. An unrelenting guilt complex. Déjà vu was as likely as anything; he could have worked with that. But there was no denying anymore.

At first, the reporter seemed only somewhat familiar to him, the way you remember someone through a smudged picture, after decades of separation. But when Auruo had seen her and reacted – as if he’d been run through by a ragged blade, by someone he trusted – three things came into horrible focus: there was indeed something that had come before this life; Auruo remembered some of it, but not enough to recognize Levi; and the woman seemed to be completely unaware of their circumstances. He hadn’t decided if that was a good thing or not.

Probably not. He couldn’t remember the details, but that old life had an air of tragedy to it, a bitter tang, like the lingering stench of a burnt meal. He knew enough about it to know that he’d failed them – that was the core of his recognition, its most prominent feature. He couldn’t see any of this shit turning out better this time around.

There was another grim errand he had to do sometime before his shabby business went under, an uncomfortable confrontation he’d hoped to put off forever. Now that two of his ghosts had decidedly materialized, it was his duty to track down the others, if only to make sure they weren’t completely cracked. And if they weren’t –

He scrubbed harder, abruptly irritated with himself. What was he supposed to do then? What was he supposed to do about any of this crap? He hadn’t signed up for this; he’d live out the rest of his miserable life without complaint if he never had to deal with grieving, messed up strangers, scrambled over something none of them could exactly remember, but knew had happened, somehow. The uncertainty irritated him as much as the details, the fact that this ridiculous bullshit was happening at all. Like the plot out of some stupid video game.

It didn’t take him long to finish bussing down. Levi cast one last look out over the floor, squinting for bits of food and trash he might have missed. Sometimes he didn’t know why he kept this shitty dump. He told himself he didn’t have anything keeping him here either, that it was just the same as it had been overseas, that it was the same as anywhere. If he was smart, he’d sell the damn thing before it caused more trouble, before anything worse could happen. There was one common thread between this life and the one that came before: he was here, and everything he touched fell apart. He sniffed once before striding out into the drizzling rain, locking the door behind him.

~

When he left Levi’s place, (planting his feet in a freezing puddle up to his ankles), Auruo made a choice. He _wasn’t_ going to freak out about this. He was going to keep his marbles safely where they belonged, in a neat row of boxes in his head, labeled The Way Things Are – stuff he couldn’t change, so he’d look at it later. If ever.

Like the nightmares. At some point, he’d decided he needed to at least make an attempt at functionality; he couldn’t go through life flinching at shadows and every shade of red. And he’d succeeded, for the most part. It wasn’t so bad when his ghosts had been hypotheticals, shrouded in shifting memory; he only had to really face them when he was asleep.

But there was no use losing his shit over the reality of the situation, especially not when Levi needed him. The woman from his nightmare existed, or someone like her, anyway. She didn’t seem to recognize him, so maybe she wasn’t the same person. Just someone wearing her lovely face. He didn’t know if that was worse or not.

_You’re incredible …_

“You’re a fucking moron,” he cursed himself, storming down the rain-slicked street and hiking the strap of his bag up his shoulder. _And possibly crazy._

It would be better if she really was some stranger, Auruo coached himself, taking the steps to the Metra platform two at a time. The inevitability of things gave him an edgy energy, the way he felt before a gig at an unfamiliar place; hands twitching, blood crackling, heartbeat pinned to his throat. Yet there was something repulsive about the thought of someone else beneath those features, an unknown, a _thief_ , wearing what had so inextricably belonged to the woman from his dream.

(If only it were as romantic as it sounded on paper.)

Auruo put it off as long as he possibly could, ruminating over the impending indignity for the rest of his commute. He took advantage of his thirty-six-minute commute to do a little research on this publication the woman was supposed to work for: something called _The Beacon_. Technically a media conglomerate, ran a paper and a website, daily pieces on various subjects of _interest_. They’d come through the last two decades of format transfer without a scratch, a feat unmanaged by a lot of bigger companies. He skimmed some of the titles: regional lifestyle, current events, increasingly political (as everything was now). He thought about snooping around for hers but she’d never told him what her name was (which was probably for the best), and he wasn’t going through an entire company’s reporter profiles, for the one face that matched. He was _not_ that guy.

He took deep, indulgent breaths as he coasted down the threadbare street, his bike pedals scuffing the back of his calves raw. It was cold and damp enough to distract him, with a dark that could only come after Halloween, when the world felt pale and translucent, empty of even its ghosts.

The weight of his bike dug into his aching shoulder as he thunked up the stairs – they reeked of piss even worse than this morning. Lip curling, he shambled down the hall before fumbling with the door and piling inside his skeletal apartment. It loomed before him, six-hundred and twenty square feet illuminated by dull yellow light from the streetlamps.

Maybe if he waited long enough, there would be no answer, and he could leave his request in a voicemail – without having to thread it between his old classmate’s insufferable bloviating. Maybe he could get away texting this – who even talked on the phone anymore? With a heavy sigh, he dug through his pockets for his phone, scrolling through the pitifully short list of contacts before dialing the cursed number.

Axel picked up on the sixth ring, that insufferable drama queen. “Now, this couldn’t possibly be Auruo Bossard, because I distinctly remember him telling me he’d cut off his own hands and eat them before he spoke to me again.”

“I don’t remember saying that.”

“You never do.”

Auruo let out a terse sigh, wandering around his apartment in tight circles, hissing in pain when his hip clipped the doorknob. “Cut the crap and listen to me, alright? I’ve got a gig for you,” he said, attempting to wheedle, but his voice was tight. 

“Where at?”

“Levi’s. I – shut up a minute, Christ – I know what it sounds like, but it’s important –”

“Ooh, important, he says. What’s so important about another weekend playing at your regular dive, Boss?”

Auruo’s gaze lifted to the ceiling, gut twisting; he’d have to put it in terms Axel could appreciate. “There’s a reporter coming by this weekend. Hot, redhead, you get the idea. She’s doing a story about the place, and she mentioned the act being a pretty big part of her opinion.  So, y’know, I figure I should do you the favor, huh?”

“A favor, right.” Axel _hmmed_. “How many sets?”

“Ah … six total.”

“Are you shitting me? Doesn’t he have any other acts?”

“What do you think? Of course not. The cook quit on him too. Last couple days I’ve been working and playing.”

“I’m assuming this is for both Friday and Saturday.”

“That’s right …”

“Six sets, huh … you sure you got the stamina for that?”

“How about you let me worry about that. Stamina, for fuck’s sake. Say what you want about the venue, but I’ve got a regular spot. Some weeks, I’m playing five a night. Don’t snerk at me about what I can handle.”

“Easy now, Boss. I’m not insinuating anything.”

Auruo’s ears burned. “Asshole.” 

“You know what I think, this place sounds cursed. Is it going to ruin my career if I play here? Am I going to end up a washed-up string bean like some people I know? Not naming names.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Auruo retorted. “Running a bar ain’t easy, you know.” He felt unaccountably defensive of Levi, to an absurd degree – as if Levi needed a wreck like Auruo to do anything on his behalf.

“I dunno, Auruo ...”

“Ah, c’mon.” Auruo tossed an empty pizza box onto the counter table. “Are you gonna act like showing off for a gorgeous reporter isn’t on your bucket list. You impress her and then the next week there’s her review in the paper, breathlessly praising you, your mastery, your _command_. Then the calls start pouring in.”  

He could hear Axel trying to suppress his laughter. “You are a very rotten little man.”

“Don’t even pretend.”

“Any little bit of buzz helps,” Axel said cheerfully. “I have bills to think of, and all. Maybe I’m playing at someplace else, someplace that’ll pay me more.”

“If you let me blather on when you were already busy –”

“Nah, I’m not. Yeah, fine. You made your case, in your special way.”

“What’s that supposed to mean.”

“All you had to say was the truth.” A dramatic pause, presumably to accommodate a nasty grin. “ _You_ wanna impress the redhead.”

Auruo managed a cavalier laugh, though if they were speaking in person Axel would have been able to see the truth on his features no matter what he did with them. “Well, sure. I’d rather my first real print review be a good one too.”

“Right … see you Friday, Boss.”

“Will you ever stop calling me that?”

“Probably not.”

Auruo mashed his thumb on the end-call, yearning for the days of the flip phone, when he could snap it shut so people would know he was pissed. Axel could use a little of that in his life.

Auruo turned a few more agitated circles before flopping back on the couch, letting the pizza box crumple off the coffee table with a pathetic thud. ‘Garbage table’ would be a more accurate label – maybe ‘mailbox overflow’ ‘stuff-I-don’t-want-to-deal-with-right-now dump’. He couldn’t bring himself to throw them away – that was irresponsible, childish behavior and he was more functional than that, obviously -- yet the physical effort required to extricate the missives from their containers might actually kill him. At least, they would if he did them today. Maybe tomorrow.

Bleating carhorns punctuated the background hush of rain, and Auruo shivered. That edgy feeling only deepened the longer he stared out the window, peering up at the thick darkness of the sky, tinged with muddy orange light, bleeding from the Chicago skyline. He couldn’t see a single star.  Nothing like home, like the country; he could wander out as far as he wanted and not run into a single person; he could find the flattest piece of land and make a little camp, and when the sun set he would lie back and watch the stars spin above his head, caught in their slow, ancient dance.

He could always go back home, if he wanted. His parents would welcome him with open arms, his brothers would be manic with joy, even Benoit, who had been looking forward to his long weekend in the city for months. He didn’t have to stay here and make a life out of the scraps left of him, incongruent pieces that refused to take; he didn’t have to confront the face of his nightmare, and in fact, if he was smart, he wouldn’t. He’d call Levi and give him the bad news, with the immediate bonus that Auruo had at least managed the bare minimum of finding a replacement. He could do something like that, if he wanted to.

On a swell of impulsive certainty, Auruo rolled to his feet and strode to the kitchenette, hauling out half empty bottles of booze and arranging them on his counter. He could back out now, he could back out at any time, it wasn’t too late – but as he unscrewed each and poured its contents down the drain, this excuse withered away. He set his jaw, watching the amber liquid glug out of the bottle, determination swelling in his hollow chest. He was a goddamn mess, but he wasn’t going to run and hide – not to his family, not to drink. He was going to face this, whatever the fuck it was.

Only when he’d finished his grand gesture did the implications settle over him, like a film of grease. He surveyed the graveyard of his terrible decisions, empty bottles like tombstones, and slid to the ground with a moan of dismay. “That was three-hundred bucks worth of booze,” he muttered, threading his hands in his unruly hair. Shame on him for having it in the first place, but to throw it _away_?

That’s the idea, Auruo reminded himself firmly. _You’ll feel too guilty to buy another bottle the rest of your life._ He palmed the pack of cigarettes in his back pocket before his nerve failed him – who knew what kind of trouble he’d be causing if he went cold turkey now? Levi would be pissed if he got sick this weekend, with so much at stake. He wasn’t going to risk that.

Auruo didn’t look at the bed – but not for the same reason, not because he was afraid to face her. Tonight he folded himself at his keyboard, settling his headphones over his head with a steadying huff of breath. He had a few hours until work, but he wasn’t tired. He had a horde of ideas smacking around the inside of his skull, fragments of melodies, a chord change he could make something out of, each of them jockeying to be free. He wouldn’t rest until he’d done so.

He was thinking about her as he wrote; she lived in his fingers, in the memories that weren’t memories, like the echo of a song coming from another room.  He forced himself to forget the endings.

~

Long after her father had finally gone to sleep, Petra huddled in the oversized chair by her bedroom window with a notebook perched precariously in her lap, her feet tucked under herself. They’d gone numb ages ago, but she’d been so consumed by her writing that she hadn’t properly noticed. It wasn’t work, for once, or fantasies of independence she’d do better to set aside, but the only real indulgence she allowed herself anymore, one guarded as jealously as any scandal – a haphazard pile of poems.

It wasn’t an easy hobby. She labored over them as only a perfectionist can, picking over one for weeks at a time, constructing with slow, exacting care. She wrote lightly in pencil, so the words could be easily rubbed away if she didn’t like the sound of them, the feel and flow. Each final poem was set on a layer of smudged graphite, like the top layer of sediment in bedrock. Better smudges than ragged stubs of paper sticking out of the binding, from where the pages had been ripped away – she couldn’t bear the sight of that. She preferred the sense of accretion, visual reminder that even stumbling over the wrong words was part of finding the right ones.

But tonight there was no comfort in it. She wrote and rewrote the same sentence sixteen times, spent an hour debating between two synonyms with different enough connotations to infuriate before deciding both were completely inappropriate. Hours later, she had less than nothing to show for her effort. Somehow, she had managed to unwrite this stupid poem.

Anyone else would take the hint – this collection of overwrought sentences would prefer not to exist – but Petra was stubborn. She would drag it screaming into the explicit if it was the last thing she ever did.

She scratched her nose with the end of her pencil. It was past one, and she had to get up in less than five hours, and the house needed to be cleaned sometime before Friday evening, groceries procured, meals for the next week prepared, yet she couldn’t put her thoughts to rest. It wasn't the pianist, she insisted to herself; she wasn't thinking about his hands again, or those haunted hazel eyes.  

Stretching, she rolled to her feet and wobbled to the window, heaving it open. A plume of chill filled the room, misting her flushed face, and she breathed deep to the bottom of her stomach, the cold flooding her raw senses. That old restless ache settled in her chest, took her cruelly by the heart. She wanted to leap from her window and fly, hit the ground running so fast she could feel each muscle snap and contract, reckless and taut. She wanted to fly out over the whole world, see all there was to see of it, not just from above but from the middle, hands deep in its hurt. Learning things herself, discovering, pulling things apart to see what’s inside, how it works, how to understand. Using it to _help_.

It was why she’d got a job at _The Beacon_ in the first place; they had a good reputation for topicality, especially since the new CEO was barely thirty-five. _Those Millennials_ , the old guard muttered to themselves over coffee,  before complaining about how confusing the cloud was. So far, her boss had only given her the fluff assignments – nightlife reviews, citing that her temperament made her a natural fit. Apparently, readers liked her spark.

Her eyes narrowed, fingers curling on the sill hard enough to hurt.

~

 The next morning, a girl was waiting in front of the bar, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her ragged military issue longcoat, collar turned up, shoulders hiked to her ears. Her white blond hair stuck out in unruly tufts, and her face was hungry in a way Levi recognized immediately, shifting and tense, like she expected a punch coming. She straightened when she saw him approach, looming a good four inches above him. “I saw your ad,” she said, sniffing and chafing her hands together. “You need me.”

“I need a cook,” Levi retorted, appalled, yet grudgingly amused.

The girl looked from side to side, theatrically craning over her narrow shoulders at the grey streets. “I don’t see anyone else around here, do you?” Her smirk was decidedly unkind, sharp as the slash of a knife in the hand of a scavenger. “Come on. I’m not stupid, I need a paycheck. I’ll show you what I got. I wouldn’t bother showing up if I couldn’t, right? Who would. Come on, Mr. Ackerman, it’s cold out here. You want me to freeze to death? My lips are turning blue, see? Come on.”

“Calm down, you moron. Stop blathering.” He studied her overlarge features, bracing for the sickening certainty that he had seen this awful girl before, that he had some debt to owe her, just like the others. But there was nothing, just her obstinate horseface looking down into his, brows twitching into an irritated line. “Yeah, fine. Fine, as in I’ll see what you can do. Don’t get excited.”

“Mr. Ackerman, you haven’t seen excited.”

He had a sinking feeling that she was right. “It’s Levi.”

“Gotcha, Levi. Let’s get goin, huh? You don’t have a lot of time.”

His gaze snapped to hers. She paled at his startled look, waving her hands as if to ward him off. “Before you open! You know, your operating hours? Jesus, are we in a crappy movie or something? What else could I be talking about?”

His heart took a long time to slow. “Forget it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i live!!! and so does this fic!! i've actually made a proto-outline for this so we'll see if it helps me write on a real schedule. as always thank you for your patience <3


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